My Weblog

From Crime Scenes to Spaceships

by John L. French

I suppose I should start by introducing myself. I’m John L. French and in real life I’m a crime scene investigator for ... well, let’s just say it’s for a very busy East Coast city. The department for which I work has new rules about what can be posted on the Internet.

As a crime scene investigator my job is to respond to scenes of crimes, document those scenes and collect evidence that will help in the identification of the people involved in the crime. Unlike some of my television counterparts, I do not analyze the evidence I recover. My field of expertise is to recognize the evidentiary value of items found on scenes and recover and package them so that they can be examined by the correct analytical unit.

 One of the things I do on my off time is write. As a long time mystery fan (I started with Doyle, moved on to Christie then discovered Chandler and company) and given what I do for a living, I began writing short crime fiction. To my surprise a few of my stories were published and so I became a small part of the world of crime fiction. A very small part, just enough to legitimately identify myself as “a writer.”

 When I started, stories were still submitted to editors on hardcopy through the mail, with a SASE enclosed should the story need to be returned. And of course it did because it was one of your few copies and it cost ten cents a page to make another one. Back then there were few markets outside the digest magazines for short mystery fiction.

 Then came the revolution, the Internet and the revival of the small press. I was at the time submitting stories to very small presses who printed out their magazines on copiers. I was still a crime writer. Then someone asked me if I could write a horror story. I was new but not stupid so of course I said yes then had to make good. That led to zombie stories, vampire stories and stories about extra dimensional monsters. More recently it’s been science fiction, fantasy and steampunk. I have written stories about bad-assed fairies and tortoise-shaped space ships.

 But it’s a funny thing. Somehow, no matter what the genre, most of my stories still remain crime stories. A zombie who wants to know who murdered him, a SWAT team based in a fairie world, a locked airlock mystery. They’re various genres but they’re all still crime fiction.

 “What’s the point?”  I imagine some of you asking. “You write a lot of stories. So what?” The point is that while there are more markets for crime fiction than there used to be, there are still not enough, not compared to the other genres out there. By expanding my scope I’ve been able to get several books of my collected fiction published. True, I had some connections, but those connections were made because when asked, “Can you?” I almost always said “yes.” For those of you looking for that first, or next, break, look at other genres and ask yourself, “Can you?”

Thanks to Donna Andrews and the Femmes Fatales for the invite to guest blog - John

John L. French is a crime scene supervisor with the [Big City Name redacted] Police Department Crime Laboratory. As a break from the realities of his job he writes science fiction, pulp, horror, fantasy and, of course, crime fiction. His latest book is PARADISE DENIED from Books of the Dead Press), a collection of stories of various genres. John does not have a website and has yet to join Facebook but can be reached at [email protected] if you have any questions, comments or if you need advice with the forensic aspect of your story.

How do you celebrate the New Year?

by Dana

It is very nearly 2014, which is a shock to me because I'm still convinced that it's late August 2013.  I've only now just exchanged my winter clothes and summer clothes.  It's been so hectic, that the snow and lack of leaves on the trees doesn't figure into my temporal calculations, I fear. 

When I was a kid, I had a superstition about buying books on December 31, thinking a) I'd have something to read if I stayed up late, b.) I should use up my gift certificates before I lost them, and c.) if I bought books on December 31, I'd be assured plenty of books in the new year.  Again, logic didn't figure into it, but it made me happy, and it's something still on my checklist:  champagne, cheese, and books.  Because even if January 1 wasn't a holiday, there might be a snow storm, and I like to be prepared.

Wishing you all the very best in 2014 leads to the all-important question:  How do you celebrate the New Year?

Christmas memories

by Donna Andrews

It's the time of year for sharing fond memories of holidays past.  I was torn betwen telling you about my mother's  blue Christmas and the year Dad got stuck in a pine tree on Christmas morning.  I flipped a coin.  Should have flipped it somewhere else. The office is a bit messy. Damned coin's in here somewhere, under the wrapping paper and stuff, but I have no idea which way it landed, so I'll tell both.

Mom's Blue Christmas.

This would have taken place around 1938, plus or minus a year or two. My mother was attending Madison College in Harrisonburg, Virginia. Nowadays, of course, it's coeducational, and has been renamed James Madison University, and has a football team, which always makes Mom giggle uncontrollably, because in her day it was a women's college. And in those apparently more innocent times, one of the students' main recreations was going to downtown Harrisonburg to shop, or at least window shop.

That December, one of the stores had a window display featuring a Christmas tree decorated completely in blue and silver ornaments. Mom was quite impresed with this tree, and wrote home, probably severeal times, to gush about how beautiful it was.

Remember the year? 1938 or thereabouts? So the country was still in the Depression, and money was tight.  But my mother was an only child, and had graduated from high school and gone off to college at the tender age of sixteen, and my grandmother missed her sorely.  So Mummaw scrimped and saved and bought all new ornaments for the family Christmas tree.  When my mother walked in, it was a vision in blue and silver.  It was beautiful!

But as the holiday season wore on, my mother couldn't help thinking that it was a little cold compared to the traditional family tree.  What looked great in a store window might not be precisely what you wanted in your family home.  But she would not for the world have hurt my grandmother by saying so.

And as it turned out, they weren't home much to enjoy it.  Someone in the family was seriously ill--I think it was my grandfather's mother--and they spent most of the holiday season at her house.  During one of their absences, the family cat knocked over the blue and silver tree and broke many of the beautiful new ornaments.

My grandmother was more upset than Mom, until Mom told her that while the tree was beautiful, and she loved having it this year, she'd rather missed their traditional tree, and it would be fine with her if they went back to all the old, beloved ornaments. And my grandparents confessed that they, too, much preferred the old version.  So those blue and silver ornaments that survived went in the box with all the rest, and next Christmas they added a little bit of extra pizzazz to the familiar family tree.

And that's the story of the Blue Christmas.

The Christmas Dad Got Stuck in a Pine Tree

This happened, as well as I can remember, when I was in high school.  We'd finished the present opening, and Mom was starting the preparations for Christmas dinner.  As was his habit, Dad wandered outside to see if anything needed doing, and decided that this brisk, cold--but not snowy--Christmas morning would be the perfect time to trim the dead branches off of a couple of the pine trees in our side yard.

So he grabbed his bow saw and put his extension ladder against the first pine tree--a tree so tall that the ladder only reached the lowest branches, or possibly the stubs where he'd previously cut off dead limbs.  He sawed away happily until one of the falling branches knocked his ladder down.

He didn't worry about it at first. Someone would come along eventually.  He kept working on the tree, keeping an eye out for passers by.

There were no passers by.  The weather, although sunny, was bitterly cold.  And no snow, so no one was outside testing new sleds or skis.  Everyone was inside, enjoying their presents, or possibly eating dinner.

Which is what my mother wanted us to be doing.  She went several times to the front or back door and called.  "Andy!  Andy!  Annnn-deeeeee!"  She'd had years of practice projecting her voice to call him, my brother, and me.  We could usually hear her from several houses away. Dad, up a tree at the side of the house, heard her just fine.  But his plaintive calls for help didn't carry as well.

Then along came Jimmy. 

Jimmy was a little kid--maybe four or five?--who had come to live with his grandparents because of some kind of family turmoil.  He hero-worshipped my brother, and was always turning up to see if he could tag along. 

Dad was relieved.

"Jimmy! Jimmy!"

Jimmy looked around, puzzled.

"Up here, Jimmy!"

Jimmy stared up at my father, who by now was clinging to the pine tree, each foot on the stub where a branch had been removed.

"Mr. Andrews?  What are you doing up in that tree?"

"Jimmy, can you go tell Mrs. Andrews I'm up here?"

Jimmy didn't quite grasp the situation. In his life, climbing a tree that tall ranked high on the things of things he was absolutely forbidden to do.

"Don't worry, Mr. Andrews. I won't tell her you're up there."

My father made several more attempts to convince Jimmy that no, he wanted Mrs. Andrews to find him. Jimmy loyally promised several more times to keep his mouth shut before he heard his grandmother calling him.

"Jiiii-meeeee! Dinner's ready."

"Bye, Mr. Andrews."

Jimmy trotted home.  Dad looked around. He had a good view of the neighborhood from the top of that tree, and he could see that no one else was out.  Everyone would be at dinner.

He gave up and shinnied down the pine tree, falling the last ten feet or so, and limped into the house, covered in scratches and pine tar.  Fortunately the appearance of the turkey restored his good humor.

Jimmy kept his word and never told on him.

And that's the story of the year Dad got stuck in a pine tree on Christmas morning.

 

 

The Ten-Book Challenge

by Dana

There's been a thing going around on Facebook, asking people about the ten books that stayed with you, just off the top of your head, no worrying about if they're cool enough.  It's led to some very cool discussions and made me draw up a few serious TBR lists. Since this is the time of year there may be extra time to read, I thought I'd share mine.

I've written about the five books that changed my life, the five mysteries, etc, but to share in the fun, here's what came off the top of my head quickest.  In alphabetical order, with a brief statement of what they meant to me: 

Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
My first major multi-re-read.  Run off to the big city to start writing and have adventures? 'Nuff said.

Operation Chaos (Poul Anderson)
Not a perfect book, but I think it was the use of magic and lycanthropy in a “modern” setting that I loved.  Possibly also my first werewolf!

The Past Through Tomorrow (Robert A. Heinlein)
My introduction to golden age SF, courtesy of the guy I stalked in the Stephen King section.

The Bone People (Keri Hulme)
OMG.  The language is exquisite, the storytelling is fearless and brutal; I slowed down to make it last.

The Mystery at Shadow Ranch (Carolyn Keene)
My introduction to mystery; I was hooked.  These days, I want to call it “Mystery at Canyon Ranch,” which is just another kind of wish fulfillment.

The Stand (Stephen King)
My introduction to Uncle Stevie.  And a sentimental favorite: Who knew you could meet your own true love discussing “Captain Trips”?

Forerunner Foray (Andre Norton)
I stumbled on this in junior high and it just haunted me forever.  It had the idea of investigating the past and a loneliness I loved.

Busman's Honeymoon (Dorothy L Sayers)
Every time I read this, I'm struck by the nuanced observation of class differences.  I'm also struck by a love story in which both characters are determined to not lose themselves in the relationship.

Complete Works (William Shakespeare)
I think I read either "Hamlet" or "MacBeth" first, and was so amazed:  these were people I could understand!  I could understand the story even with all the fancy words!  Fancy words are cool!

The Lord of the Rings (J.R.R.Tolkien)
My first brush with epic fantasy.  Got me addicted to sword and sorcery, fantasy, and D&D.

The Age of Innocence (Edith Wharton)
The only time I've ever stayed in a laundromat after my laundry was done.  Wharton just sends me as a cultural observer.

Yes, that's eleven books (thirteen if you count LotR as three books), but I am unashamed of having cheated!  How many did you recognize as books that stayed with you?  What's on your list?

I'll Be Home For Christmas

I love Rosemary Harris’ Dirty Business gardening series – "Slugfest" was my favorite. Her debut novel, "Pushing Up Daisies." was nominated for an Agatha and an Anthony for Best First Novel. Rosemary has returned to her roots with her new novel. "The Bitches of Brooklyn" is the ultimate female buddy novel. And yes, I say the B-word like it’s a compliment. This novel is hilarious. Leave a comment and Rosemary will put your name in a drawing for a copy of "The Bitches of Brooklyn."

by Rosemary Harris

One of the best things about setting my latest book in Brooklyn was that I got to go back home and call it research. None of my family stills lives there, so it was a bittersweet return - but more sweet, than bitter.

It's been said that one in every six Americans has a connection to Brooklyn. I'm a second generation Brooklynite, born in Fort Greene, now hipster haven but just a nice, warm mixed ethnic neighborhood when I was a kid. We felt safe, there was a sense of community.

I had a lot of wonderful times but one of my favorite memories is of driving around the borough in search of the most incredible - and sometimes outrageous - displays of holiday lights.  An annual tradition when I was a child, on our way to and from buying the tree, the exercise became a cheap group date when I was a teenager.  We'd kick in for gas and pile into three or four cars (as teens, not many of us in Brooklyn had or needed cars until we were older) and head for those areas that the grapevine had told us excelled in the holiday spirit.

Perhaps in an attempt to shake off the grim, daily procession of black cars, the folks who lived across the street from the funeral home on Ralph Avenue usually took first prize. They constructed stables with lifesize models of reindeer - moving heads, of course - and a complete North Pole workshop. Mrs. Santa came in and out on an electric track bearing a tray of cookies. And the lights? Fuggedaboudit. The display covered an entire block. Over time, the owners' neighbors got into the act and before we knew it there were just a few areas to visit in between hot chocolate stops.

These days, the indisputable zip code with the highest wattage is Dyker Heights - now famous for its Dyker Lights. It's become such an attraction that even jaded New Yorkers make the pilgrimage across the bridge.  Every year the local news agencies send teams to see what the newest displays are. Yes, there are moving parts, inflatables and full-scale Nativity scenes but this is mostly about LIGHTS. And it's not just a few overly egg-nogged families. It's hundreds. It's been said the lights can be seen from outer space.

I'll be making the trek again this week, but here are some of my pix from last year. Does your neighborhood have a holiday tradition? And what's your holiday style? Pottery Barn minimalist or Dyker Lights?

Visit Rosemary at www.rosemaryharris.com  and Like her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/RosemaryHarriswriter. And don't forget to leave your comment.

THIS JUST IN: Congratulations to Angelique Armae. She won the drawing for Rosemary Harris' new novel, THE BITCHES OF BROOKLYN.

 

Also Starring...

Also Starring

by Elizabeth Foxwell

Today's guest, Agatha winner Elizabeth Foxwell, is managing editor of Clues: A Journal of Detection (the only US scholarly journal on mystery and detective fiction) and editor of the McFarland Companions to Mystery Fiction series. Her collection No Man’s Land and Other Stories is available on a variety of ebook formats. She blogs at elizabethfoxwell.blogspot.com.

We follow mystery series because of intriguing plots and appealing protagonists, but supporting players also can earn our loyalty. They add verisimilitude to the fictional universe created by the author, supply vital clues and support to the hero or heroine, provide comic relief, serve as potential suspects, and build reader sympathy by their ability to irritate the major characters.

The following are a few of my favorite supporting players in mysterydom. What are yours?

Grandmama, Charlotte and Thomas Pitt series (Anne Perry). Charlotte’s cranky paternal grandmother is usually occupied with detailing the many faults of her daughter-in-law and grandchildren, but her officiousness sometimes extends beyond the family. Perry’s Victorian series eventually revealed some details about Grandmama’s past that helped explain her personality, but this knowledge does little to mitigate her sheer awfulness. The epitome of Grandmama’s chutzpah occurred in Highgate Rise, when she decided to call on the Worlinghams after their niece’s mysterious death so she could obtain the inside scoop—despite the fact that she had not seen the family for 30 years.

Miss Drusilla Clack, The Moonstone (Wilkie Collins). Poor relation Miss Clack provides one of the testimonies regarding the disappearance of the priceless gem of the title. Mystery fans may admire Miss Clack’s statement, “My sacred regard for truth is (thank God) far above my respect for persons,” and her ability to hide behind curtains to eavesdrop on crucial conversations, but may have lesser regard for her imposition of tracts on unsuspecting bystanders such as “Satan among the Sofa Cushions.”

Wilson Budd Hotchkiss, The Man in Lower Ten (Mary Roberts Rinehart). Pity the diminutive Wilson Budd Hotchkiss. Despite his adherence to the “inductive method” of Poe, diligent reading of Gaboriau, and ardent note-taking, few seem to appreciate his enthusiasm for amateur detection. When he wants to trace bloodstains around the murder victim on a train and asks bemused hero Lawrence Blakeley to jab his finger with a pin, the conductor snarls, “if you don’t keep out of this . . . I will do some jabbing myself.” Richey McKnight, the sardonic lawyer colleague of Blakeley, finally dubs Hotchkiss “the great original protoplasm.”

Cordelia Thorn, Jane Lawless series (Ellen Hart). Part of the fun of a mystery with the newly minted PI is discovering the unique undertakings of the theatrical Cordelia Thorn, Jane’s devoted best friend and wingman. In the latest, Taken by the Wind, Cordelia adopts hazmat gear as the latest fashion trend.

Ramses Emerson, Amelia Peabody Emerson series, Elizabeth Peters. The precocious son of forthright Egyptologist Amelia Peabody Emerson took on a more prominent and serious role as the Victorian/Edwardian/WWI series progressed, but I am particularly fond of his early appearances, as in The Curse of the Pharoahs, when he informs his mother that he has found a “femuw of a winocowus.” In this same book, Ramses’ usually formidable father calls him “Papa’s widdle Wawa,” to his mother’s disgust.

 

 

 

Two Great Things—no, three.

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

One great thing:

I was on the plane from somewhere to somewhere, trying to project a bubble around myself. A bubble that said: Don’t talk to me, I’m writing. I’m thinking: I’m a nice person, but I would love to spend this flight by myself with myself. I was in the midst of revisions of TRUTH BE TOLD (Forge 2014 if all goes as planned), and writing on an airplane is my favorite. No wifi, just me and the manuscript. I always get so much done.

I was on the aisle, maybe seat 2 D. The window seat, F? was occupied, I don’t even remember by who.

The middle seat was empty. YES.

I avoided eye contact with everyone entering the plane, trying to project: don’t sit here. Which clearly has no effect, because the seats are assigned so no matter how powerful my stay-away vibes are, it isn’t gonna matter if someone’s boarding pass says 2 E.

But the crying baby and her mom walked on by. Yay. The angry looking teenager with the music so loud through her earbuds I could hear it myself walked on by. The plane was getting more and more full, and I was lucking out like mad.

No one in the middle seat, thank you, tum tee tum, I’m telepathically messaging the pilot: Let’s GO.

But no.

A guy appears, briefcase and newspaper, gives me the “can you move your legs or possibly all of you because I have to sit here” look.

He’s my age, I guess, and I can’t describe him at this point because it doesn’t matter, all that matters is that he’s 2E and I will have to deal with this.

Geez, I’m thinking as he fusses and fidgets and finds the seat belt and puts all his stuff, kindle and computer and magazines and coffee and gosh knows what else in the seat pocket in front of him, (this might be a little exaggerated, but I’m just describing what it FELT like) Give the guy a break. He has no idea you want to be by yourself, and it’s as much his row as yours.

I smile at him, attempting to telegraph “I’m a nice person but don’t talk to me.”

I do not wait for a response.

I diligently read.  We take off. Read read read, boy am I reading.  The moment we get the okay, I flap down the tray table, whip out my laptop and work work work, boy am I working.

Working working working.

I pause, thinking.

Working on a book? The guy says.

Argh. He’s been looking. Yes, I say. A thriller.

You’re an author, he says. And I like thrillers.

Now Femmes, as you might imagine, at this point  another part  of my brain is raising its hand here. Psst.  He likes thrillers. He might BUY YOUR BOOK. He might have FRIENDS. He might be best friends with whoever directed Love, Actually. Or be the next Hitchcock.

I decide I might have time for a tiny chat.

Yes, I say. What (here’s the friendly part) do you do?

Emergent solution design, he says.

Huh? I say. What’s that?

Well, he says, do you know the end of our book before you write it?

No, I  say. I don’t. I don’t know til I get there.

But do you have faith you can get there? he asks.

Oh, sure I say. Some days it’s more iffy than others, but in the big picture, I’m pretty confident I’ll be able to solve my own mystery.

He looks happy. That’s emergent solution design, he says. I teach people how to use their instincts and their experiences to  be creative and work on projects and come up with new ideas—without having to have an absolute plan along the way.

I am enchanted. What’s it called again? I ask.

Emergent solution design, he says. And it’s interesting, there are some people who simply cannot be taught to think that way.

The discussion was much longer, and so fascinating. And the plane ride was over too soon.

But isn’t that exactly how many of us work? We know we have to get to the end, and we even kind of know how far away it is. We don’t know exactly what it is—but we have an absolute belief that even if we have to struggle and  worry and gripe and moan that this is the time we will simply NOT be able to do it—we really know  we will.

It gave me a huge boost of confidence and joy. Thank you, 2E.

And thank you, too, to Cynthia at the temple sisterhood luncheon.  Talk about a boost of joy. She wrote this postcard to me after my speech—and I share that with you, too.

Here is Great thing number 2. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Great thing  number 3. And I guess they did. THE WRONG GIRL made the Boston Globe bestseller list again, the third time!

May angles surround you too.

Any great things happen to you recently?

 

 

 

 

 

Trying new things

by Charlaine Harris

Before I actually began getting older, I was comfortable in a rut. The everyday uproar of bringing up three children and trying to keep a career on track, a house running, definitely took up all my time and energy. Learning something new seemed impossible; in fact, undesirable. I was too occupied with maintaining some friendships; in fact, running in place.  I kept putting off a lot of things until my life settled down. Then my kids were out of the house, but by then I was busier than ever since my career was in an upturn.

I turned down some opportunities I shouldn’t have, because I felt I didn’t have the time to learn anything new. But all that came to a halt. . . not abruptly, but gradually. I realized that there never would be a time to sample a new experience if I didn’t make it. If I didn’t say “Yes!” to some of the open doors that were in front of me. So I sat on a bar stool  in an episode of “True Blood.” I went to a premiere. I began editing anthologies with Leigh Perry, aka Toni L.P. Kelner. I wrote a graphic novel (out this January!) with Christopher Golden. I switched my Hollywood representation. I did pitches (unsuccessful) for other books of mine I thought might make great movies. I was a guest judge on “Halloween Wars.”

Most of these ventures turned out just fine, and no one told me I was too old to do them. And every new attempt energized me. What’s the worst that could happen? Someone would say “no.” Is that so awful? Not if you keep trying to get someone else to say “Yes.”

Charlaine Harris

Holiday Mood

from Mary Saums

 

What do you do to get in the holiday spirit? Tell us your special ritual or happy activity to get in the swing of things! At this time of year, there are plenty of outside activities. School or church plays. Shopping. Indoors we can decorate the house or maybe bake up a special treat. Or, my favorite, read a good winter mystery. Here are a couple I just finished that you might like.

 

 

THE TWELVE CLUES OF CHRISTMAS by Rhys Bowen is a delightful entry in her Lady Georgie series. Georgie takes a job at an English manor to help out with a 10 day house party. Naturally, mayhem ensues. One of my favorite series.

 

 

 

 

BLOODSTONE by P.C. Doherty is a historical mystery set in 1380 England. A rich merchant dies under suspicious circumstances and a holy relic disappears. The blood stone, a large ruby, was believed to have curative powers. The coroner and a clever friar team up to solve the murder. Very enjoyable read.

 

 

So what are your holiday treats? What gets you in the mood of the season?

 

 

 

The Things We Do for Love

By Elaine Viets

We’re used to seeing Maryann Schnoor walking around our Fort Lauderdale neighborhood early in the morning with a beer can in her hand.

Maryann isn’t drinking. She’s humoring her cocker spaniel, Marley.

The lengths Maryann goes to please her dog are so funny, I moved the pair to St. Louis and put them in my new Josie Marcus mystery shopper mystery, "Fixing to Die."

Marley is now a patient of Dr. Ted Scottsmeyer. Josie’s new husband talks about his amusing patients at dinner with Josie and her 12-year-old daughter, Amelia – if it doesn’t break confidentiality. Here’s the scene:

 

"Which favorite was in today?" Josie asked.

"Marley," Ted said. "He belongs to Maryann Schnoor. Marley’s a cocker spaniel, but he’s really a retriever. Each morning on his walk, Marley has to find a beer can, or the walk’s not finished. They may search for half an hour. Marley carries his beer can halfway home, then drops it. Maryann has to pick it up and carry it the rest of the way. The walk is not complete without that ritual."

"What happens if Marley can’t find a beer can?" Amelia asked.

"He’ll settle for a soda or iced tea can," Ted said, "but he drops that halfway, too. If Maryann can’t find a trash can, she has to walk through the neighborhood at seven a.m. carrying a beer can. She hopes the neighbors don’t think she’s a drunk."

Amelia giggled.

"The only thing Marley won’t touch is an energy drink can," Ted said.

"I won’t touch them, either," Amelia said.

Don and I would never go to those lengths for our two cats, Harry and Mystery. But we do go to new heights. Our Chartreux, Mystery, gobbles her dinner and then tries to eat Harry’s. So we carry his plate into my office. Harry wants the plate on the floor at dinner time, and we close the door to keep out Mystery. At breakfast, he wants to be served on top the bookcase.

Unless he wants his plate on the floor instead.

Do you cater to your pets? Tell us your tail. Er, tale.